Winter in My Bones

I sat for a time on a well-remembered stump,

remains of an old friend now drying in the returned sun

and was overcome by the the undisturbed warmth about me.

I imagined I felt the warmth of that sun probing me

trying this locked pore and that weary patch of scalp to enter.

But I remained closed...the cold within

holding court in my very marrow.

Snow and storms in my soul

Winter in my bones.

This will pass as the days grow long once more,

I will know summer again this season

But I was shocked to so easily foresee

an older me that will someday find winter

clinging tightly,

even as summer's holds takes the rest

and rules unchallenged for its season.

How is it that such chill foreknowledge haunts

even as the woods surrender to warmth and returning beauty?